Finality
by Abi2
Summary: A short, one shot. Harry, Voldemort. One fallen, One standing.
1. Chapter 1

With Dumbledore gone, there were less protections around the castle. There were less signs of their impending doom. The only warning came from a chorus of booms and screams from the great doors. All eyes in the Great Hall turned, frozen to the spot as they listened, all quiet.

The sounds of shouting and thunderous footsteps echoed in the silent Hall.

He had come.

The children started to panic, started to try to flee the Great Hall, go anywhere but where the Death Eaters were going to be. But everything stopped. Time slowed as the doors to the Great Hall flew open. Spells, all of them immobilizing spells, flew in large numbers. They settled over the occupants of the Great hall, stilling everyone, all frozen in position.

No sounds, save the heavy breathing from everyone.

The Death Eaters were silent now, lined up, creating a walkway for their Master.

Lord Voldemort.

Barely heard screams, sobs, and sharp intakes of breath.

_He had come._

Only one person could move, only one person could do anything besides cry silent tears, watching their last minutes of existance form torturous immobility.

One person, barely a man, still so young. And yet, he had never been young. He was older by far than most anyone in this castle. All you had to do was look in his eyes.

Haunted, deep, terribly old, worn eyes. Eyes that had seen unimaginable destruction. Eyes that had seen deaths by the thousands. Eyes that held the guilt of every one of those deaths.

But curiously, they were now blank.

Understanding filtered though. A blank peace.

He was going to die today.

Maybe they both would.

Hopefully... Hopefully they both would...

Harry stood, his robes swishing around his ankles as he straightened. He dusted himself off, made sure to have his wand within easy access. He knew that Voldemort was cunning, and that he most probably would kill him before Harry got within ten feet of him. But another part, the part that had been attatched to this _monster_ for seven years now, knew that Voldemort would wait. Would speak his piece before the final confrontation.

His steps echoed hollowly in the silence of the Great Hall, as he walked slowly to meet this madman. All those who could see him wondered, they wondered "What is he doing?" And all he could offer them was a smile, a blank, reassuring smile.

It was fake.

He was fake.

And now, he didn't have to pretend anymore.

"Voldemort."

"Haaarrryyy..." So drawn out, so condescending.

A head bent ever so slightly in recognition.

"So it comes to this?" No accusation, a simple, honest question.

A tilt of the inhuman head.

"Yesss. Here. Where all can see your downfall, and my ultimate victory!" Hissed Voldemort.

A nod.

"Yes, then. Shall we?"

So calm. The monster was taken aback, almost visually affronted.

"Have you nothing to say to them? No final words, no heroic speech?" Voldemort asked, laughing.

"Why would I give a heroic speech? There is no Hero here. Only You, only Me."

A self-depriciating smile. A slight shrug.

"There is no one here." He looked down at himself.

"There never was."

Two wands drawn, quickly.

Two curses spoken at the same time.

Two jets of light, one green, one black.

One fallen, one standing.

Two fallen, one standing.

Twelve fallen, one standing.

Twenty fallen, one standing.

Thirty fallen, four standing.

All fallen, all standing.

One whispered curse, a jet of green light.

The One, Fallen.

All standing. None daring move. Whispers, sobs. One entire table, sitting heavily, grief overwhelming. Two tables, three, four.

All seated, all trying to understand what just happened.

Voldemort was dead.

The Death Eaters had died with him, souls attatched through the Dark Mark, called to Hell for heinous crimes.

Harry was dead.

Their savior, the one who had been so counted upon, so looked down upon, even on his pedistal of duty.

The one no one knew, until now.

He was dead.

But he had never really been alive, they realized. How could they have missed it? The softly smiling, almost silent boy; for that was what he was, a boy. No more.

A boy of seventeen. Who was never loved. Never accepted for being a boy. Only for being The-Boy-Who-Lived.

Hushed crying turned into loud sobs as they grieved. Harry hadn't defeated Voldemort, he had Killed him.

Killed.

And then, he had used the killing curse.

The Avada Kevadra.

He had used it on himself.

-------------------------------------------------------------------(fin)------------------------------------------------------------------

Just a drabble. A stupid idea. I don't care if you review, no one ever does anyways. Hope you liked.


	2. Chapter 2

Well, I had a few requests to follow this up, but in truth, that's all there is. There is no more to the story. It ends with his death, because that's the poigniant and slightly ironic end to it.

"There is nothing here. There never was."

It's all a show for him, all something that he's recognized and hidden for so long.

C'mon, he was abused, used, and thrown aside. Lets face it, he's all sorts of screwed up. Think about it, how much hate has to go into the Avada Kevadra? A lot, which is why, with some unspecified spell, Harry kills him, not with the Avada Kevadra. I guess I could explain it in story format... I'll try.

-

-

-

-

There was no feeling, no sensations. Only darkness and blessed coldness, relief. No emotions other than the light feeling, the one that told him what had happened.

He was playing his part no more. He had taken his bow after playing out the role he was given

But no more.

His conciousness was obliterated as his body fell to the floor, blackness and howling as the blood roared one final time.

It was over, yet it was just begun.

In those precious seconds as the Death Eaters fell, he realized just how many lives were cut short, even the lives of murderers like the Death Eaters.

Their children, their families... So much loss.

All because he had lived, all because he had not been able to kill the man when he was only a year old.

How could they place such a burden on a boy?

He had done what they wanted, and he could see their faces. He had _killed_ Voldemort, not what they were expecting, he thought. They were expecting some great duel, some news of his great triumph without the pause to consider what would happen when all was said and done.

They were wrong.

He couldn't have used Avada, he didn't hate the man, even for all he did.

He could understand, really. It was simple. You grow up shunned, hated, reviled and lonely.

Add a dash of impudence, genius, and a will to survive.

Were they not the same?

He had the same potential as Tom Riddle did when he was young, had the same backround, same impetus.

He felt the bile rising in his throat as he thought about it, as he had thought about it for ages and ages before. Ever since he learned the truth behind Voldemort.

He was a scared, hurting little boy, grown to a man scared only of failure and death.

But Harry... Harry was not afraid of that death. He had been ready to face it since he had discovered that it was his destiny.

As he stood there, watching the bodies fall and rise, like a great seething tide, his thoughts roared in his ears, like the blood rushing through his veins.

His natural sense of fatalism... no. It was simple acceptance, and a bit of cynicism.

He would die.

"Neither can live while the other survives..."

It made a sick sort of sense now.

He was meant to kill the man.

And he couldn't live with the self hate, the loathing that came from being a mass murderer.

Sure, it was indirect on his part, but he still orchestrated it. It was something that he held himself responsible for.

He took that hate, that rage and saddness that he couldn't find when he killed Voldemort, and he turned it on himself.

A heartbeat, and a roar.

His heart stopped, and so did his thoughts.

He felt no more.

-

-

-

-

Is that better? I think it's pretty good for a quick-write. Tell me your thoughts on the subject?


End file.
